


and he's gotta be larger than life

by flotationdevice



Category: Friends (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M, Gen, Parody, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flotationdevice/pseuds/flotationdevice
Summary: When Ross was younger, he’d always imagined being a superhero to be more glamorous. You know—flashy suits, villainous arch-nemeses, adoring crowds. Saving the world from peril and making it home in time to meet a beautiful woman for dinner. Statues raised in his honor. TV interviews. That kind of thing.And don’t get him wrong—he’s not doing it for the glory, or anything. He uses his powers for good because it’s the Right Thing To Do™ —but still. A little glory would be nice..In which Ross has a bad habit of dating supervillains and the gang saves New York on their lunch breaks.
Relationships: Chandler Bing/Monica Geller, Ross Geller/Rachel Green
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	and he's gotta be larger than life

**Author's Note:**

> I found this draft kicking around in my WIP folder and realized it was basically done, so I thought I'd edit it a bit and let it see the light of day. It is immensely silly and self-indulgent. Enjoy!

The first thing Ross Geller notices is that he’s cold. There’s a draft blowing in, and he wonders detachedly if he left his bedroom window open before he went to sleep. He thinks about closing it, but his body feels so heavy—heavy and loose and numb—and he can’t quite seem to force his eyes open. The draft will have to wait.

Slowly, though, he begins to notice other…stuff. It almost feels—well, it almost feels like he’s upright, actually. Which is impossible, because he’s asleep. There’s a weird pressure on his forearms, an ache in his shoulders that feels familiar in a way he can’t quite place, and god, all he really wants to do is go back to sleep. But now he’s hearing something—water. Dripping. Did he leave the tap on, too? Huh. It’s got a weird echo, like he’s standing in the bathroom or something, but that can’t be right. Why would he be sleeping in the bathroom?

 _Man_ , he thinks groggily. _This is some hangover_.

He sighs and tries to stretch, and finds that he can’t, which is about the time that the alarm bells start going off in his head. What the hell is going on? Suddenly, he doesn’t feel sleepy so much as sedated, and—wait. Has he been _drugged_? He struggles to remember something—anything—where he’d been last—but his mind is clouded, his thoughts vague and fumbling. He tries to move again, and—yep, those are definitely restraints around his wrists. With a superhuman effort (he should know), he finally manages to wrench his eyes open, and—

Well isn’t this just _typical_.

He’s locked up in some kind of—well, _lair_ , for lack of better word. He blinks his eyes hard, willing himself awake, straining his ears for some kind of hint as to where he is. It’s silent, though; cold and dark and silent, except for the persistent echo of dripping water, and a pale blue light illuminating some kind of computer terminal. He squirms a little, trying to free his limbs, and realizes he’s been cuffed to a metal slab. He’s still wearing yesterday’s suit (or at least, he hopes it was yesterday), and, god, his head is _really_ starting to hurt.

 _Why do bad things happen to good people?_ Ross wonders, and sighs, letting his head fall back against the slab.

Three hours and twenty-eight minutes later (assuming his watch is still working right), Ross finally gets some answers. The grogginess has worn off to be replaced first by panic, then irritation, and he’s spent the hours alternating between trying to break free and wondering what he’s done (lately) to deserve this kind of treatment. He’s thinking of giving up and just going back to sleep, when he suddenly becomes aware that he is no longer alone.

“Did you have a good rest?” says a woman’s voice—and how is it that the most inane phrases sound so sophisticated with an English accent?

“Uh, the mattress was a bit hard,” he quips, going for calm, cool and collected and instead mostly just managing raspy. In his own defense, he’s thirsty as hell. He has another go at breaking the restraints, but either he’s more exhausted than he feels or they’re stronger than they look, because he doesn’t have any more luck than the last hundred or so times he’s tried. He hears her laughing, the tinkling sound echoing around him, and huffs in annoyance.

“Sorry, Ross,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m afraid it won’t be as simple as that.” She steps out into the light, then, and she’s just as pretty as he remembers her being, if a little paler. She’s smiling, but the look in her eyes is lethal.

“What’s this about, Emily?” he sighs.

“What’s this about? _What’s this about?_ ” she shrieks, suddenly hysterical, and he winces. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know _exactly_ what this is about!”

“Emily,” he says warmly, trying his best to sound placating. “I thought we put all this behind us. You know how sorry I am, okay, I’ve apologized _hundreds_ of times, I did everything I could think of—“

“Well it wasn’t good enough!” she shrieks. “You humiliated me!”

“I wouldn’t say _humiliated_ —“

She laughs sharply, cutting him off. “You said _another woman’s name_ at our _wedding_ , you nearly went on our _honeymoon_ with her, and when I asked you to stay away from her, you couldn’t even manage that!”

“Okay,” he says quickly. “Yeah, okay, the first thing, kind of my fault. And the second thing I explained to you, but the third thing—well, I don’t think that’s fair.”

“Not _fair_?” She howls, looking more unhinged with every word. “You were my _husband_ , I had the right to ask you anything I wanted! But _no_ , you wanted to spend time with that _bitch_ Rachel more than you wanted to be married to me—“

“There was _nothing between us_ —“

“ _Bullshit_ , Ross. You said her name! I heard you! We all heard you! And everybody saw the way she looked at you, and now that I’m out of the picture, I’m sure you two have been very happy together—“

“This might be a good time to mention that we’re actually not together—“

“Not anymore you’re not!” she shouts, triumphant, and presses a button on the console next to her. The room is suddenly flooded with fluorescent light, illuminating—

“Is that a _giant laser_?” She can't be serious.

“Your powers of observation, as always, amaze me,” she says flatly, and he squints up at the mass of chrome and wiring above him, pointing from the ceiling straight at his chest.

“It’s certainly, um, giant. Is that, uh, is that all for me?”

“Only the best for my Ross,” she sneers, and he tries not to roll his eyes. It starts feeling a lot less trite, however, when she flicks a switch and he hears it firing up above him.

“Um—Emily?”

“I’m going to enjoy this,” she says happily, adjusting something on the monitor in front of her. “Very much, I should think.”

“Isn’t this a little over the top?”

“Hm,” she says, pausing and tipping her head as though thinking about it. Above him, the buzzing of the laser grows louder, and panels on the sides start lighting up. “No, actually, I don’t think it is,” she says with a wicked smile, and she flips a switch that tips him backwards, metal slab and all, so that his body is facing up at the weapon. There’s a deafening mechanical groan as the laser moves towards him, lowering so that the end is no more than three feet away from his chest.

“It won’t be long now,” she says, tapping her nails against the console. “Any last words?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Could you tell Monica that—“

But he doesn’t manage to get it out before the klaxons start sounding. Emily swears and switches the monitor to a security feed, which shows what looks like an army swarming what Ross assumes is the entrance to the facility.

“Well,” she says, yelling to be heard over the wail of the alarms. “Looks like someone’s come looking for you after all. I can’t imagine why. Don’t worry, love, this shouldn’t take long.” She hits a few buttons and the laser dies down again, the buzzing fading to a whine, and the lights dim again as she sprints out of the room through a set of hydraulic doors at the far end. Ross stares after her for a moment, then sighs, closing his eyes and letting his body relax for a moment. He never realizes how tense he gets in these situations until he wakes up the next day with a crick in his neck.

Suddenly, the sirens cut out. “Well,” says a familiar voice, and Ross doesn’t know whether to yell in frustration or weep with relief. “She’s handling the divorce well.”

“Ha, ha,” he grumbles, pulling at his restraints one more time, just in case. No dice. “I think we know who’s winning the break up.”

“Debatable,” Rachel says, coming up from behind him and leaning a hand against the slab, her fingers nudging his shoulder. “Between the two of you, who’s the one strapped to a table and about to meet the business end of a—is that a _death ray_? Huh.”

“Whatever,” he snaps. “Are you here to help, or just for unsolicited commentary?”

“Oh, honey, we’ve got time for both,” Rachel says easily, pushing her hair behind her ear. “But if I had to pick just _one_ …”

“Just get me out of these,” he grumbles, flexing his arms, and she shrugs, pushing away from him. He definitely does _not_ stare at her ass as she walks away, no matter how good it looks in the black catsuit she’s taking to wearing on jobs these days.

“Stop staring at my ass,” she says flatly, not looking at him as she bends over the console, and if he wasn’t looking before, he definitely is now, but it’s only because she drew attention to it, okay?

“I’m not,” he scoffs, and sighs in relief as the restraints on his wrists and ankles snap open. He eases himself up, rubbing at his arms and rolling his shoulders.

“You’re welcome,” she says pointedly, and he waves her off, shrugging out of his jacket and tie. “You know. For the timely rescue.”

“Timely? You waited until the last _possible_ moment. A second later and all you would’ve found is a pile of ash.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Are we done limbering up there, Richard Simmons?”

“Hey, bite me,” he says, stretching his neck. “Let’s tie you up for a day and see how _you_ feel.”

“You of all people should know that I don’t let just anybody tie me up,” she says, raising her eyebrows at him before turning and strutting away, her footsteps echoing around them. “You coming?” she calls without looking back, and for a moment he considers sticking around just to spite her, but. Well. That would be _stupid_ stubborn, even for him.

Later, when they’re standing in front of a pile of rubble where the entrance to the bunker used to be, Ross gets an earful.

“How could you let this happen?” Monica yells, right after she’s hugged him and made sure he’s alright.

“I didn’t do it on _purpose_ ,” he says loudly. “ _Obviously_.”

“Well you need to be more careful!” she retorts, smacking his arm, and okay, he’d never admit out loud that Monica’s stronger than him, but she’s basically the only person that can hit him and make an impact. And yeah, okay, _ow._ That hurt.

He tries to rub at his bicep a bit without anyone noticing, but they’re mostly busy watching Chandler chase down his last clone.

“No!” the clone is yelling, leaping wildly over debris. “I’m a real boy! I’m a real boy!”

“I recognize that I have only myself to blame,” Chandler pants, hurtling after him. “But this is ridiculous.”

“I’ve been planning this joke for weeks!” his clone shouts, dodging around a piece of a support beam.

“I know I have!” Chandler yells back, stumbling a bit over some rubble. “And you’re doing a great job, really! I can barely— _huff_ —I can barely _contain_ my applause!” He hurtles over a piece of wall and catches his clone in a sideways tackle, merging back into one person as he hits the ground. “I,” he says breathlessly a moment later, picking himself up and dusting his pants off, “am insufferable. And you!” he says accusingly, spinning around to point an unsteady finger at Ross. “ _You!_ ”

“Me?” he says incredulously.

“Yes, you! Why does every one of your exes have to turn into some kind of supervillain?”

“They don’t—I mean, they don’t _all_ turn into, you know, supervillains,” he says, trailing off into a mumble, and pointedly ignores Rachel rolling her eyes.

“Name _one_ ,” Chandler says furiously.

“Carol!”

“Oh, no, she’s no megalomaniac, she just _married_ one!”

“Chandler,” Monica says quickly, stepping in between them. “Honey, Susan is _reformed_. I thought you liked her.”

“Of course I like her, Susan’s great,” Chandler says quickly, and Ross frowns. “But the point,” he says loudly, turning back to Ross, “stands. That’s it. I am putting a—a—an _embargo_ on your dating life. Okay? No more!”

“What are you talking about?”

“No more!” he yells again, his arms flailing out, before turning around and marching away.

“He’s got a point,” Monica says unhelpfully. She hoists Emily, hands tied and mouth gagged, over her shoulder, and Emily sort of tips her head in agreement.

“I hate all of you,” he says as they walk away.

“Also, thanks,” he adds as an afterthought, but he’s pretty sure that nobody hears him.

When Ross was younger, he’d always imagined being a superhero to be more glamorous. You know—flashy suits, villainous arch-nemeses, adoring crowds. Saving the world from peril and making it home in time to meet a beautiful woman for dinner. Statues raised in his honor. TV interviews. That kind of thing.

And don’t get him wrong—he’s not doing it for the glory, or anything. He uses his powers for good because it’s the Right Thing To Do™ —but still. A little glory would be nice.

Instead, it’s mostly underground brawls, breaking up gangs, helping people out of burning buildings (which, okay, is pretty heroic, but really hard on the lungs). There _was_ that one time with the giant doom robot, that was pretty cool, and of course the alien invasion a few years ago was pretty exciting, but all in all, it’s been pretty quiet.

He doesn’t even have a particularly cool undercover day job. Like, dinosaurs are the coolest, obviously, but he doesn’t get to listen in on crimes in progress on a stolen police scanner, or rush into danger zones disguised as a reporter. He just works at a museum and waits for Phoebe to call him about a ‘feeling’ she’s having, and then he takes a lunch break and beats up a bad guy or two. It’s all pretty low key.

“You ever get the feeling you were made for something greater?” he asks Monica one day, watching her dice tomatoes. Her knife flashes like lightning, almost too quick to see, and he drops his head onto his crossed arms, mesmerized. He hears Phoebe snort from the couch.

“Someone’s a little full of himself,” she says pointedly, turning around to look at him.

“I’m serious,” he says, ignoring her and addressing his sister instead. “You think this is what they had in mind for the Great American Super Soldier? Paleontology and, and culinary arts?”

“Uh, I doubt it,” she says, in a tone that clearly indicates she’s just humoring him. “But it’s not like we don’t put in a whole lot of volunteer time, you know, _super soldiering_.”

“Yeah,” he says gloomily. “I guess.”

The door opens and Rachel trudges in, covered in grime and—is that blood?

“Is that blood?” Monica says, pausing to stare, and Rachel sighs, blowing a strand of matted hair out of her face.

“Not mine,” she grumbles, and Monica nods, turning back to her vegetables. Ross watches as Rachel leans back against the door for a moment, closing her eyes, before pushing off and walking towards her room. “I can’t believe I had to ruin another work outfit,” she complains, peeling off her tattered blazer as she goes. “God, I loved this skirt, too.”

“So you’ll buy another one,” he says, just because he knows it’ll annoy her, and she stops to throw a venomous look at him over her shoulder before stomping into her room.

“Ooh!” Phoebe gasps, sitting up suddenly. “There’s something… _weird_ going on in Tribeca.”

“Define _weird,”_ he says, sitting up as well, and Monica looks at him with a warning expression, but Phoebe either doesn’t notice his tone or ignores it.

“Um,” she says, staring into space in front of her. “I’d describe it as, like, oily? Maybe slimy? Very unfriendly.”

“Great,” he sighs, and looks up at Monica, who stares back at him unflinchingly. She holds the knife up pointedly, and, too lazy to argue, he hoists himself to his feet. “I’ll get it, I guess,” he says, just as Rachel wanders back out of her room in a bra and the tattered remains of her skirt. He looks away quickly.

“Leaving so soon?” she says acidly. He doesn’t bother grabbing his coat on his way out.

“Hey, Joey, how do I look?” Rachel says, walking out of her room in a long black dress, and Joey looks up indifferently from his sandwich, shrugging.

“Fine,” he says, taking another bite, and Rachel rolls her eyes, crossing her arms impatiently.

“ _Joey_ ,” she snaps, and he sighs, pushing himself up from his seat at the table. Except, by the time he’s standing, he’s not really Joey anymore—he’s Rachel. Except Rachel’s standing over by her bedroom door. Ross looks between them, sighs, and closes his eyes, doing his best to ensure that this doesn’t accidentally become future fantasy (or nightmare) fodder, because _god_ , it’s just too weird.

“Spin around for me, honey,” Rachel says critically, moving towards the kitchen, and Ross hears Joey-as-Rachel’s heels clacking against the floor as he does an inelegant pirouette.

“Happy?” he says mutinously, his voice coming out flat and nasally in Rachel’s register, before throwing himself back down in his chair.

“Well,” Rachel says contemplatively. “No. Maybe I should go with the burgundy.”

“Where are you going, anyway?” Chandler asks from the armchair, his newspaper rustling as he turns the page.

“For your information,” Rachel says primly. “I have a date.”

When Ross opens his eyes, Joey is still Rachel, only slouched over the table and devouring a baloney/ salami/pastrami sandwich, so there’s no confusion there, and Rachel’s disappeared back into her bedroom, the door left slightly ajar. “Why don’t you just get a mirror?” he calls irritably, and she opens the door enough to stick her arms out and bump her fists at him.

“Easy there, champ,” Chandler says, not looking up from the business section. “You’re looking a little green-eyed.” Ross responds by reaching out and kicking him in the shin, which sends a second Chandler tumbling onto the floor. “Ow,” they say simultaneously, rubbing their shins and glaring at him, which is the exact moment that Rachel steps back out of her bedroom to try another outfit on Joey-as-her.

Ross looks at the identical Chandlers and the identical Rachels, sighs, and puts a cushion over his face.

“Hey, Mon, can I sleep on your couch?” Phoebe asks, brushing dirt out of her hair.

“Yeah, sweetie, of course,” she says, bandaging the final cut on Joey’s back in the kitchen. “All done.”

“Thanks,” he says quietly, squeezing her hand briefly.

“Alright,” Chandler says quietly. “We’ll be, ah, across the hall if you need us. Let’s go, Joe.” He stops to kiss Monica, brushing her hair back and cradling her face, and it feels so normal that Ross doesn’t even have to look away.

“Goodnight,” they all call, and then the door is shut and it’s just the four of them.

“I’m gonna call it a night too,” Rachel says, getting up with a wince, her hand going to her side. She all but limps into her bedroom, the door falling closed behind her. He watches Monica finish packing up the first aid kit, and gets to his feet as well.

“I guess I’ll go too,” he says, leaning in to kiss Phoebe on the cheek, then walking across the room to kiss Monica.

“Okay,” she says. “See you tomorrow?”

“’Course.”

Monica goes to bed and Phoebe goes to use the shower, and Ross is standing by the door, looking through his coat pockets for his keys, when Rachel’s door cracks open.

“Mon?” she says, but stops when she sees him. “Oh. It’s just you.”

“Yeah. I was just going.”

“Yeah,” she says, holding her arms awkwardly, clearly favoring one side. She’s still dressed, her black Kevlar suit only half unzipped, and he can see her throat, her sports bra—Calvin Klein. Some things never change.

“You need anything?” he says, looking around, wondering if she forgot something.

“No, no,” she says, trying to wave him off, but she winces as she raises her arm. “Actually,” she says after a moment, looking up to the ceiling. “Could you, um… could you help me change?”

“Uh,” he says intelligently. “Yeah. Sure.”

Her room looks the same as it always did: pink walls, big bed, clothes hung over the back of her chair, guns and ammunition laid out on top of her desk. It’s almost impossibly quiet; when she closes the door, it feels like they’re the only two people still awake in the entire city. She doesn’t say anything, just stops at the foot of her bed, and he lets himself shrug nervously once before swallowing back his stupid feelings and getting to it. He unzips the suit, mindful of her bruises, and then helps her ease it off her shoulders and down her body. She steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder as she steps out of it, and he feels her nails digging into his skin.

“Okay,” he says, when she’s standing in front of him in her underwear. “Pyjamas?”

“Under the pillow.”

Of course it’s his _Frankie Says Relax_ shirt and a pair of plaid pants, and he helps her into those too, carefully guiding her arms through the sleeves.

“Well,” she says, after a moment, and he takes the hint. The door shuts softly behind him, but he can still hear her heartbeat, hammering in her chest where he left her, standing by the bed in his t-shirt.

“Now why does this feel familiar?” Ross says, strolling nonchalantly into the darkened room where Rachel is currently strapped into a chair.

“Ugh, shut _up_ ,” she groans, throwing her head back.

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’.”

“For what?” she scoffs, rolling her head back around to glare at him. “You haven’t done anything yet except gloat.”

“Touché,” he allows, and comes around behind her to snap the restraints holding her in place. He hears her sigh as she brings her arms around and stretches; crouching, he makes quick work of the ties around her legs, too. “And now?” he says, standing up.

“Now,” she replies grumpily, “we’re even.”

He takes her hand, helping her to her feet and ignoring her annoyed look. “So. Guess I’m not the only one around here with megalomaniacal exes,” he says lightly, as they set off back the way he came in. “He really rolled out the welcome wagon for us, too. Danny, a villain. Who would have thought?”

“Don’t start,” she says, but there’s no heat in it. “And I think his sister may have had something to do with it.”

“God,” he says, shivering. “I knew there was something creepy about them.”

“On several levels,” she agrees grimly, and he’s about to say something else to annoy her when he feels the floor shake beneath them.

It happens in a split second—she turns to him, mouth open to say something—and she is rocked off her feet by a blast wave. Ross staggers to the side, just as the walls come apart around them, and chunks of ceiling start raining down. He sees the room they came from caving in—a cloud of dust coming from ahead—and in another instant he has thrown himself forward to cover Rachel’s body with his own as the building comes down on top of them.

The silence that follows is deafening. He can feel that his leg is pinned between blocks of concrete, and his arms shake with the effort of holding himself up, tons of concrete and steel pressing against his back.

There’s a cough, beneath him, and he feels Rachel’s body move against his. _Thank god_.

“Ross?” she croaks, and he grunts, willing his elbows not to buckle. He notes with curiosity that his palms are stinging, and wonders whether he’s bleeding. “Are you okay?” Her hand finds him in the darkness, pressing gently against his chest, his neck.

“Been—been better,” he manages, gritting his teeth as something above him shifts. Oh yeah—he’s gonna feel this tomorrow. “You?”

“I’m alright.” She sighs, and he feels it against his face. He can’t see anything through the darkness between them, but he feels she must be close; her breath warms his skin, and the scent of her sweat pricks at his nose. “Guess that hard head of yours comes in handy after all,” she says, after a moment, and he huffs out something almost like a laugh.

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious,” she murmurs. “We oughta use you as a battering ram.”

Finally, mercifully, something above him shifts again, and the pressure against his back lessens dramatically.

“I think—the rescue party—is on its way.” He listens carefully, beyond the immediate sound of their breathing, and hears the distant noise of Chandlers bickering and rubble being cleared away.

“Great. I’d hate to be buried alive by some nobody and his sister. How would that look in the obituary?”

“Humiliating,” he agrees, and the weight pressing into him shifts again. His arms stop shaking.

“Guess it’s a good thing you came down to get me, huh,” she says, and Ross could swear she sounds almost fond.

“Hey,” he says, working around a lump in his throat. “I owed you one.”

“Thanks,” she says softly, and as a ray of sunlight breaks through the rubble above them, he sees that she’s smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> For extra clarity - Ross and Monica are both super soldier experiments/successes, Joey can shapeshift into other people, Chandler can multiply himself, Phoebe has some clairvoyant abilities, and Rachel is a Black-Widow-assassin-type. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this silliness.


End file.
